


Brother

by Crowsister



Series: Hear Me Roar (and you'll know your name sounds better when it's whispered low) [3]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Light Description of Subtle Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 21:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20180980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowsister/pseuds/Crowsister
Summary: A collection of short stories about Kyra Kithairon and her stupid, cocky older brother, Keiron Basri.





	Brother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SephtisThan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SephtisThan/gifts).

> A birthday present for Seph! Happy borth, bud!
> 
> This is in a sort of AU for Kyra, where she and Keiron are sort of running parallel.

You meet him for the first time in a heist gone sideways.

You’re running from Steel (you’re annoyed and proud that they’re actually starting to make proper traps for you) and decided to catch a metro train to do it. You cling to the speeding train, almost jumping out of your skin when you hear another thump. You look over and see the God of Los Diablos himself, using the same trick as you.

He’s broadcasting frustration and rage, so you bite back a joke about slumming it with the peasants. But then you feel...a touch of something familiar, on your mental shields.

You don’t have time to fully process it, because Herald’s there and trying in vain to catch you _ both. _ Seeing Apollo on the news and watching Apollo in person are two different things: here, you get to feel the secondhand smoke of his battle-fury and bloodlust. It _ scares _ you, on Herald’s behalf.

You think quickly, watching streetlights pass. You throw a bola out at Herald and it snaps around him, tying him up against a streetlight.

You don’t get to feel relieved long when you pick up a sniper’s cruel intent. You move without thinking, a true feline impulse combined with your martyr complex, and take the shot that was meant for a god.

You send him a message as you pass out: _ “Hi, big brother.” _

* * *

You wake up with a start when you hear water running. Then you quietly groan in pain from moving too quickly.

Instinct kicks in. You scan your surroundings: best guess, you were in an abandoned...waterworks facility? Warning sign up on the wall implies waterworks, but the couch you’re stretched out on implies a home. Same with everything else, a patchwork of abandoned waterworks and someone’s home. You weren’t fully in the Macavity suit, some of it having been peeled away for the bandages around the bullet wound you’re now sporting. He got to see your tattoos.

“Good morning,” his voice drawls and you snap your attention to look over. And there he is. The motherfucker himself, Keiron. He looks...different than the last time you saw him. Black hair tipped with red, styled in that punk expression of identity that you’re not even remotely surprised. A single eye, green tinged with orange, looks at you with an almost bored energy.

You smile a little. “Hey,” you reply, somewhere between Kyra’s shy tenderness and Macavity’s bold challenge. “Thank-”

“What was the music they played,” he asked, voice hard as stone, “when we were first learning to dance?”

“When we were learning together?” You ask and he nods. You answer, “Apollyon musagète, by Igor Stravinsky.”

“Did I escape first or you?”

“You did.”

“What was the first gift I gave you?”

You hum. “Stolen candy bar. You...you didn’t like how they were treating me, when I had my accident and lost some of my front teeth. So you stole something from them to give to me because you wanted to make it even. Though, I gave you the athletics tape I stole from the coach before then, because you were having pain in your ankles.”

“What was _ his _ name?”

You swallow, your throat dry. You’d seen him when he’d been brought back, the hopeful look on his face as he looked at you with eyes too blue for his own good and the sterile white light glinted in his strawberry blond hair. The last thing he’d ever asked of you was to keep an eye on the man in front of you.

“Solis,” you answer, quiet.

He stares at you for a long time before he huffs a sigh. “Fuck.” You see him dig his fingers into his hair and he broadcasts the desire to _ hurt, _ hearing that name again. His hand reaches the back of his neck and he’s leaking, telepathically, strongly enough that you can feel how he digs his fingernails into his own neck in _ your _ neck.

You stand, ignoring the pain in your gut as you walk over to him. You put a hand on his shoulder and he snaps out of it. “Hi,” you say with a small smile.

“Don’t you cutely hi me, you’re supposed to be dead,” he growls, “fuck, _ worse _ than dead!”

It’s unsaid that there’s some anger at how _ you’re _ alive and Solis isn’t. You apologize, “I’m not.”

“I see that,” he drawls, gesturing at you with a hand. “You look like a trainwreck.”

“I feel like it,” you reply. “But I’d rather be a trainwreck than dead, so...thank you.”

He lets out a huff and stalks away. You hear him grumble, “Worst birthday present ever.”

* * *

Even after you’re healed, he sticks around in your life. He joins the collection of feral cats that hover around your orbit, but don’t trust you enough for that much closer.

One day, it rains and you’re soaking wet. You flash back to _ them, _ to the Farm, with every second you’re wet, remembering your pod, and you panic. But even in your panicked state, you can pick him out from a nearby apartment building.

You make your way up and knock on the door. Keiron answers in a state of undress and raises an eyebrow. “Trainwreck, what-”

“I can’t.” Your voice cracks. “I can’t handle being this wet and you were closer than my place-”

“Trainwreck, you can’t be _ this _ into the cat thing-”

“The pods,” you whisper and he goes still.

He sighs. “Come in. Into the shower, get _ warm. _Leave your clothes in a basket, I’ll throw what I can into the dryer and we’ll hang up the shit that can’t.”

You nod and let him take lead, let him shepherd you places. You slowly realize as you pull yourself together that this isn’t _ his _ apartment: it has pictures of a man and his children and the man looks _ nothing _ like Keiron.

“Whose apartment is this?” You ask, curious.

Keiron smirks. “This guy’s stuck in court proceedings,” he answers in a lazy, satisfied drawl that makes you think of a cat who’s got the canary, “so his place is free, at the moment.”

You can’t help yourself: you start to giggle at that and he gets even more smug.

* * *

Your phone rings and you look at the caller ID as the opening notes to OneRepublic’s “Everybody Loves Me” starts to play. You answer, “Heyo.”

“I’ve got a job for you.” His voice is casual, filled with ease.

You drop your voice’s pitch to imitate his. “Hello, Kyra, how’s your day?” You swap to your regular voice. “Oh, heyo, Keiron! My day’s going prrrrretty well, paycheck just came in and Michelle’s getting a catio.”

“Kyra, seriously,” Keiron replies, “I’ve got a job and only you can pull it off.”

You blink. He...he actually does sound serious. Well, as serious as Keiron can get as Keiron, which is honestly only a little more serious than he can get as Apollo (Apollo was into finishing the mission, but it was always finishing the mission with “style points”).

“Okay,” you reply, a bit more seriously. “What’s the job?”

“I need you to grab me a piano.”

“...like a portable, electronic piano?”

“Nah, the actual proper kind,” Keiron answers as if this is the most logical line of logistics in the world. “Just...bring it over to my place.”

“You want me to grab you a 500 pound piano and bring it over to your place?” The confusion you feel is entirely too real. Suddenly, you feel bad for messing with Herald so hard.

Keiron snickers. “A good small upright piano’s like...shit, maybe 300 to 400 pounds?”

“...Keiron, I will note for the record,” you answer, “that I am only doing this because I’m too curious to see what you need a _ piano _ for.” And because you love your stupid, cocky as fuck older brother, but you can’t just _ tell _him that. Direct affection makes him break out in hives. And go into hiding for a month straight until you lose your cat and he shows up in the rain, soaking wet, and holding your cat and acting like nothing happened.

He actually barks a laugh, like he hadn’t been expecting that answer. “Uh huh. I’ll see you later, trainwreck.”

It’s not hard to find a good piano of that description that needs a home that’s not a corrupt politician. The heist takes some doing, you don’t have much in the way of physical strength and the Macavity suit isn’t built for heavy lifting. But you manage, through some quick thinking.

“Knock knock,” you call into Keiron’s base, riding in on top of the piano’s sturdy case.

“Here I was worried you’d be late, trainwreck.” He’s dressed casually, meaning that the entire price tag of the outfit ranged in the hundreds of dollars range. Sprawled out on his couch like he’d been posing like a French girl for some invisible artist. He sits up, rolling his shoulders back as he examines the piano. “Help me move it over here.”

You help him, curiosity hitting an all-time high. He pulls over a chair to the piano.

“Okay,” he replies. “What time is it?”

“It’s...” You fiddle with the UI of your helmet. “...midnight.” You blink, catching the point. “It just became June 22nd.”

“Your self-assigned birthday, trainwreck,” he replies, smirking. You both say nothing about how you picked two days after the summer solstice, when the sun is always high in the sky. “And my present to you? We’re gonna steal back ballet from Those Motherfuckers for you.” You can practically hear the capital letters in the way he growls out the words.

You blink back tears. “Keiron-”

“No, seriously,” he interrupts, “think about it. They’d hate if we stole back control, right? So, let’s steal something you love from them so they can’t make it a weapon against you.” Keiron looks to you and gives a wicked grin. “Turn a pirouette into a rusty knife right up their collective, hive-mind asshole.”

You want to hug him, but restrain yourself. Instead, you let out a laugh that you hope isn’t too wet with tears. “Well...fuck, sure, I’m willing to try.”

And you do. He plays, you try to dance without freezing up with bad memories. It’s easier, with him there. Your breakthrough hits after he plays a piano cover of “Macavity” for you, let you blend yourself together.

He plays and you prowl, singing, “Macavity's a mystery cat, she's called the _ Hidden Paw _ for she's a master criminal who can defy the law. She’s the bafflement of LDPD, the Rangers’ despair for when they reach the scene of crime, Macavity's not there!”

You slowly blend your typical Macavity theatrics with the ballet that Keiron’s fishing for. By the end of the song, you’re a true hybrid, ballerina and cat, and your helmet is next to the stool Keiron’s sitting on. And you're both smiling.


End file.
